


get what we deserve

by werepope (quiteparadise)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8897080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiteparadise/pseuds/werepope
Summary: Kylo Ren doesn't have SAD.  He IS sad.  There's a difference.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benditlikekylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benditlikekylux/gifts).



> for [benditlikekylux](http://benditlikekylux.tumblr.com/), to whom this Kylo belongs. Surprise, surprise.

Hux is on one knee over him on the bed, trying to resist the hand in his hair without losing any of it. “I have to go,” he says, pleading and apologetic and not half as convincing as he means it to be.

Kylo kisses him just to shut him up, traces the shape of Hux’s incisors with the tip of his tongue, and shifts to topple them both back onto the mattress. He is too focused on _mine, here, stay_ to predict the way Hux rolls with it, pressing tight against Kylo before slipping out of his grip and off the edge of the bed, tripping over the tangle of sheet and blanket he takes with him as he scrambles to his feet.

“I’m blocking your number,” Hux says, as he grabs his bag and slams out of Kylo’s apartment.

...

 

Solo Garage specializes in motorcycle repair which, in a NorCal winter, means long jobs. Restoration work, the sort that can take months of plodding work, because anyone with sense and an engine that runs has their bike put up until spring, when the rush of dings and sputters will come in droves. It’s the sort of work Kylo wouldn’t mind, if he had the right distractions. As it stands, the only thing he has to look forward to at home is his own motorcycle, not so much deconstructed as torn apart, and absolutely no enthusiasm for putting it back together again.

Seasonal affective disorder, Leia said, when he caved and took her call last week, because deleting voicemail messages from his mother is probably a kind of karmic hell he shouldn’t risk, all things considered. Then she said he should come up to Utah with her to spend the holiday Luke and his family, and they had the kind of argument they’d managed to avoid for a few years now, so, whatever. Karma’s probably bullshit anyway.

At least he can put Leia off, fake a dead battery or a crappy signal or having a social life. His dad is present, in the garage or what passes for an office, unsettlingly observant when it suits him. And something about Kylo must give it away, because Han’s been guilting him since he talked to Leia, in that special divorcee way of his, without even acknowledging that there is anything going on at all. Either that or Kylo has an overdeveloped sense of guilt from having spent his formative years with parents who yelled at each other all the time and then refused to so much as be in the same state.

Kylo scrapes his fingers leaning into a bolt that’s been rusted on for a decade, cursing over the clatter of the wrench while blood beads up around the ragged edge of new pink flesh, welling up to mix with black-brown grease in the wrinkles of his knuckles. He peels off a delicate furl of white skin before wiping his hand on his tank. He throws the wrench into the open lid of his Snap-On.

The way he checks his phone after toweling off his hands is reflexive. The way he shoves it, irritated, into his pocket and slams his tool case closed is less so.

“I’m going home,” he tells Han, leaning into the office where Han sits hunched over a stack of filmy, triple copy carbon papers. When Han only nods, Kylo huffs, retreats.

In the locker room, trading coveralls for jeans, tying his boots back on, one of the Knights shrugs into her jacket and says: “Drinks?”

Kylo has spent every other night for weeks at home, in bed, switching between YouTube YouPorn, growing increasingly resentful of his free time, his otherwise unoccupied shitty futon mattress, his right hand. He forced himself out on the weekend, he knows his limits, but Christmas shopping and a meeting with the crew were hardly satisfying.

No Hux. No sex. No Hux.

Maybe a drunken fight isn’t exactly what he needs, but going out and getting in someone’s face sounds like as good a way to spend the night as any.

“I’ll have to make a pit stop.”

He’s never exactly flush with money. The garage more than breaks even, but most of that goes to the other mechanics. He and Han are co-owners -- they’re always going to be the last people to get paid. If he tries to run his debit card one more time it’s going to turn into dust. He has a stash, though, a handful of twenties he’s managed to squirrel away for emergencies, and this is close enough.

Nahid has a matte black Honda CB1000R that she calls the Vibraptor, but she also has a champagne 2003 Nissan Pathfinder, which is one more vehicle than Kylo, who gets more use out of his bus pass in the winter than Upsilon. Nahid rides like a demon, with a tireless enthusiasm for making all the other Knights watch her taillight for hours. She drives the Nissan like a grandmother, signalling a block before his street and getting honked at for being too cautious at a light.

“Being aggressive on a bike is being safe,” Nahid says, unbuckling to follow him in. “Being aggressive in a car is just stupid. It kills people.”

She hasn’t seen Upsilon since before he tore it apart, is used to it pretty and slick the way he shines it up for rallies. He almost tells her to stay in the car just to spare them both the reaction, but if he’s got anything to hide from the Knights, it’s not his temper. There’s a reason Nahid invited him out tonight, instead of letting him stew for another week.

It’s late enough, dark enough that he has to flip the light on, elbowing it up as he pulls his keys out of the lock. He stops suddenly enough that Nahid steps into him, kicks his heel. She grunts, pushes at him, says: “C’mon, man, I have to pee.”

There is a black wool peacoat thrown over Upsilon’s skeleton. A pair of sharp-toed black boots kicked off, one near the door, the other on a pile of laundry. A Givenchy belt, still in the loops of black slacks, is curled up just barely over the edge of the mattress. A thin black t-shirt, rumpled up around ribs, is collapsed in the bed. Fine copper hair and milk pale skin on black sheets.

“Later,” Kylo says, shouldering Nahid back, shutting the door on her.

She barks his name, all irritation with no follow-through, but he’s already thrown the bolt. Is already shedding his jacket to toss it over Hux’s on the bike. He doesn’t bother taking off his own boots or belt, just steps up onto the mattress to straddle Hux’s narrow ass, to press up along his spine and breathe against the nape of his neck.

Hux stirs under him, groaning a bit. “Hey.”

Kylo pushes his hands up into his shirt to span Hux’s ribs, to get his fingertips into the damp heat of his underarms. He’s thinner than the last time Kylo saw him. “You’re done?”

“Done.”

“Thank fuck,” Kylo says, and rolls off of Hux to press his weight into the mattress, to free his arms up for circling Hux into his grip, pulling and jostling until they’re settled on their sides, knees tucked up together, sharing a pillow. “We’re not doing that again.”

Hux is already dozing off, going limp to twitch awake again through flagging force of will. It takes him a minute to parse the language.

“One more time. Then I’m done,” he says, and squeezes Kylo’s arm where it’s draped over him, like that’s not heavy enough for his bird bones. His voice has the rising edge of a yawn on it.

“Not like that. Not cold turkey.” Kylo is nowhere near tired, feels like buzzing right out of his skin after being denied this. He can think of a dozen things he wants to do right now, in this bed, and none of them involve sleeping or being clothed. “We couldn’t even sext.”

Hux makes a pathetic attempt at turning over, at lifting his head to look back at Kylo, but gives up with a sigh. “Well,” he says, “I don’t go back to class until January. I can make it up to you.”

“You’re not leaving this bed.”

“No," he agrees. "I need twelve hours. Minimum.”

“Never again,” Kylo insists, tightening his arm around Hux enough to squeeze a grunt out of him. “I know your tricks now.”

“Yeah okay.”


End file.
